


red sky at morning

by slow-smiles (the_irish_mayhem)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Post-Dark Swan Arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 17:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11422833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_irish_mayhem/pseuds/slow-smiles
Summary: Killian is gone and Emma is trying to pick up the pieces of her life when she starts getting strange signs that something is wrong.An alternative avenue to the Underworld arc and far more angsty end to 5A.





	red sky at morning

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to give more weight to Emma's mourning and Killian's death.
> 
> There's some difficult material ahead, folks.

Before coming to Storybrooke, Emma Swan had attended two funerals in her lifetime.

One was for work--she had a lead that her skip was going to be in attendance, and lo and behold, he’d shown up, predictable as clockwork. She’d tried to grab him as surreptitiously as possible, but had ended up knocking over the funeral tribute and giving the minister a concussion. (She’d ended up paid and the family didn’t press charges against her, so, in all, a win.)

The other had been for Maryanne Gilbert’s mom’s when she was in third grade. She’d been shuffled out of another home and into another school district when the second quarter of the school year had started. She’d only been there for about two or so weeks when Maryanne’s mother was killed in a car accident, and the whole third grade had been shuttled to the funeral in lieu of social studies that morning. It was weird, and Emma felt awkward and out of place because no one in class had really liked her and she had to sit through a funeral service for this woman she didn’t even _know_. But the one thing--the one thing that stands out to her in that memory is the crying. She’d never seen people just… cry. It’d always been something hidden, something heard through thin walls and muffled into pillows. Grief was strange, communal grief even stranger.

But now… she feels she can understand. It was difficult to bury Neal, but not… it was different.

Killian is another story.

There’s… more administration around death than she’d ever known. It was one thing for the EMTs to take his body away, covered in a blanket and strapped down, and then there’s--

Then there’s claiming the body, _signing for it_ as though he were a package and claiming his personal affects and there’s--

Her mother had suggested going to get them. _You must want his things_ , she’d said.

At first, Emma had refused. _They’re just the things he wore every day. I don’t… I don’t need them._

Snow had given her this look that said ‘I can see straight through you.’ _What about his jacket? And his rings? What about his hook?_

Something about the way she’d said it pulled memories from Emma, precious ones that she’d tried to put away, seal in a box in her mind to never be opened again. Seeing him outside her apartment on their first date with the dapper, short leather coat. The rings he’d worn as long as she’d known him, their coolness against his heat, the way they’d run over her skin, the way he’d remove them before bed. The bands of pale skin they left behind on his fingers. _Liam’s ring_ that she wears around her neck, and god, _his necklaces_.

And his hook. For some reason, she’d never included that as something that would be counted as a personal affect. It was a part of him, so she’d never… in her mind, it would be buried with him.

So Snow drives her, and she signs for the body and his personal affects. She’s running her fingers over the exquisitely smooth leather when her fingers trip over something that shouldn’t be there.

The floor drops out from under her as she pushes her fingers through the hole in his jacket where she ended his life with a blade meant for her.

Snow barely manages to get her home.

***

There’s a funeral to plan, Emma knows this, but she sees no evidence of it. Her mom and dad keep saying _we’ll take care of it._ “What if you pick a coffin he doesn’t like,” is all she can think to say.

David sighs. “Do you want the final say on the coffin?”

She doesn’t. She doesn’t want to see or imagine the wooden box where Killian’s body would be placed, where his body would rot and decay beneath the ground.

But she nods.

“What was his middle name?” Snow asks gently.

Emma’s look must convey confusion.

“For the headstone,” she clarifies.

“He doesn’t have one,” answers Emma. “He’s just Killian Jones.”

They must notice Emma’s inability to use the past tense, but neither comments on it. If they do, Emma isn’t sure how she’ll respond. Her parents may have lost each other countless times, but they always had the _finding_ part to ease the pain of not having each other.

Emma can’t help but feel cheated.

***

The wake and funeral are an exercise in a lot of things. Patience, being the primary. Regina helpfully plays attack dog when she can tell someone is starting to get on Emma’s nerves.

She stands on the side of the grave, only half listening to the empty words the minister is saying. There’s a curl of anger in her belly because he didn’t even know Killian, he has _no right_ to talk about him and tell her that _we should not see death as an end._

Emma only realizes her hands had been shaking when Regina reaches over and hooks her elbow around Emma’s.

“I know,” whispers Regina. “I know.”

So Emma manages to hold it together. At least until her father gets up to speak.

“When I first met Killian Jones… he was not a friend. Even when he started to turn himself around and brought us to Neverland, I still didn’t like him. Partially because he liked my daughter…” A chorus of understanding chuckles echoes through the gathering. Emma feels an unwitting smile pull across her face. “But also because I… didn’t think he was a good man.” Charming lets out a soft chuckle of his own. “I’ve never been more glad to be more wrong.

“When we were in Neverland, I was infected by what we thought was an incurable poison. He could’ve easily let me die, but he risked his own life instead to save mine. He was kind of an ass about it,” he says with a chuckle, “but that’s kind of who he was. He could be irreverent and cocky, but under that… there was a good heart.

“Storybrooke… it has a way of changing people. It’s funny, Regina made this place to take away the happy endings, but I think it also has a way of giving them back. But it’s not without work, and… paying the price for your actions.

“And Killian paid for his mistakes with his life. He gave himself up to save all of us. To give us our chance at happiness here.” Charming sends Emma a meaningful look. “He was a man who fought hard for those that he loved and left his mark on all of us in his own way.” His feet shuffled, and he sighed deeply.

“While he was with us, we were privileged to not just know a good man, but a great one. And I wish… I wish that we had more time with him.”

Emma manages to smile through the tears because if that isn’t the understatement of the century, she doesn’t know what is.

She makes it through the funeral. That night, she lies awake in her room in her parents’ loft, clutching one of his shirts to her chest.

There’s nothing else to feel but profoundly empty.

***

It’s Henry who convinces her to keep the big, blue house. “We picked it out for us,” he says. “Killian wanted you to have a future. And he was hoping you’d want to have that future _here_.”

Emma bites her lip. _I’ll be happy knowing that you’ll have one._

The soft way he’d spoken to her just before the end. _It’s okay._

The last thing he’d ever said to her.

_It’s okay._

_It’s okay._

Henry doesn’t say anything, just leans over and hugs her. She feels a different tug at her heart that he’s almost as tall as she is, and wraps her arms around her little boy in return.

“I love you so much,” she says. “You know that, right?”

Henry laughs a little bit. “Yeah, mom. Love you too.” She doesn’t let go for a long time.

***

She has good days and bad days.

Her good days mean she can think of Killian and laugh at a memory, can think of him and her heart feels full for having known him. She goes to work, she meets with Regina for lunch, she sees her parents for dinner, takes care of her little brother and feels like she’s truly listening to his last words.

_It’s okay._

It _will be_ okay.

But then there are the bad days. Days when she feels like she can hardly get out of bed, days when the grief sits on her chest like a stone and she feels like she can hardly breathe. Days when she gets so _angry_ at life for handing her this fate, at _him_ for giving himself up, at the darkness, at Merlin, at her parents, at Regina, at _herself_.

After one of her particularly bad days, she makes a copy of her house key and presses it urgently into her mother’s hand. Snow seems to understand, and softens. She grabs Emma’s hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

And Emma--

A month after his death, Emma starts seeing him. Always just out of the corner of her eye, almost as if he ducked around a corner before she could fully lay her eyes on him. And sometimes she’d hear him. No full words or sentences, just sounds of living and breathing that were so unbelievably _Killian_ she could cry.

At lunch with Regina, she must notice something off about Emma.

“How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.”

Regina gives her a look.

Emma can’t keep staring at her, so she turns her gaze down at her grilled cheese.

“You’re not fine, Emma. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not--” she runs a frustrated hand through her hair. “I’m not trying to lie, I just… I can barely explain it to myself. There’s just a lot going on for me right now.”

Regina’s head cocks fractionally, and she’s quiet for almost a full minute. Emma can barely meet her intense gaze.

Emma finally breaks, “What?”

“You’re seeing him, aren’t you?”

Emma startles.

Regina nods and sighs sadly. “Are you hearing him too?”

There’s a pressure in Emma’s throat and a burning behind her eyes, and she nods.

Regina sighs again, softening and reaching for Emma’s arm. Regina looks up, profound grief on her face when she says, “I saw Daniel for months after it happened.” Emma’s gaze snapped to hers. Regina just shakes her head slowly, a small, sad smile twisting her lips. “I would dream about him almost every night, and when I was awake, I’d… I’d be walking through a crowd and would see him just out of reach. I would hear him at the oddest times.” Regina shakes her head again. She squeezes Emma’s arm. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

There’s a heavy pause between them. “Does it go away?”

Regina nods. “After a while. But it just… it takes time. It was the worst when it was fresh,” she says. “I saw him less after time went on. It never hurts less, but… you learn how to hold onto it a bit easier.”

***

He’s screaming.

It’s Killian and he’s in pain.

Emma jolts awake, and imagines his tortured cries will end now that she’s no longer asleep, but they don’t. They echo through her room, but she has no idea from where.

Her heart is racing as she throws the covers off her legs and gets out of bed. “Killian?” she calls out, tentatively.

He doesn’t give any indication of having heard her, his scream dying off into a choked sob. It sends a knife through her heart to imagine him somewhere in pain, that he’s screaming for help but no one is coming for him--

“Killian?” she calls louder, opening her door and walking out into the hall, where the screams are just as loud as they were in her room.

“Killian!” she yells, not quite knowing why she would expect an answer.

Killian’s next sound is a pained groan that morphs into a reluctant scream, as though every sound he made was being pulled out of him.

She’s glad Henry isn’t here to hear this.

As soon as she thinks it, she realizes-- god. He’s dead, and she’s imagining this. She _must_ be imagining this, because it’s not possible.

This is all in her head.

She freezes in the hallway, unable to move and unable to just ignore the sound of the man she loves crying out. She begins to weep, and slides down to the floor, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs.

“I’m going crazy,” she whispers.

***

The screams had abruptly cut off not long after she’d sunk to the floor, but she knew she wouldn’t have a prayer of getting back to sleep.

So she makes herself a pot of coffee and watches late night TV until the sun comes up. She watches the clock until precisely 8 AM, and then she calls Archie to set up an appointment.

It was one thing to see him out of the corner of her eye and hear small sounds that she thought belonged to him, but last night… that wasn’t normal.

She schedules an appointment for later that day, and calls in at the station. Her dad will already be working, and she knows that she won’t be of any use to him today.

“I’m proud of you,” he tells her when she reluctantly shares that she’s going to see Archie today. She doesn’t give him any details about what prompted the appointment set up. “We’ve been hoping you’d decide to give counseling a go in your own time.”

“He’s helped Henry a lot over the years,” she answers. “I figure there’s no harm in giving it a try.”

She can hear his smile over the phone. “That’s the spirit. Listen, I gotta go, someone just walked in, but I love you. Give your mom a call too, okay?”

That makes her smile a little. “Okay. Love you too.”

***

“So, Emma, what brings you in today?”

Archie’s office is surprisingly homey. Done in warm colors and wood, the place could pass for a sitting room in someone’s house. Emma supposes the only experience she’s ever had with therapists is what little Henry has told her about his sessions, and the aloof ones on television with modern and sterile offices. Emma sits on a comfy leather couch with a woven blanket underneath her with hands clasped and elbows on her knees.

His is a loaded question, honestly, but she figures she’ll address the most immediate cause. “I heard Killian screaming last night.”

He clearly hadn’t been expecting that. “I’m--I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“I woke up last night because I literally heard him screaming in pain. At first I thought it could be a dream, but then it didn’t stop, even when I was awake.”

“Had you heard or seen him before this incident?”

“Yeah,” she answers, “but not like this. It’s always like little flashes, you know? I’d see him out of the corner of my eye, or hear him chuckle or breath or something from the other room. It was never… it never hurt that much.”

“You also mentioned that you thought it might be a dream. Had you had any dreams like this beforehand?”

She takes a sharp breath in. “I’ve watched myself kill him almost every night since I did it. But there’s never been screaming, at least not that I can remember.”

“How much sleep have you been getting? With the dreams, I can’t imagine very much.”

“I don’t know. It varies. Sometimes I sleep for an hour, sometimes twelve.”

“And how much have you told your family about what you’re going through?”

She knots her fingers together, twisting and pulling. “Not much. I don’t want them to worry about me.”

“Emma, they love you. Grieving is always difficult, but it’s a lot less so when you don’t try to go it alone.”

She doesn’t immediately reply.

“What do I even say to them?” Emma says. “My parents don’t _get it_. Yeah, they’ve lost each other before, but never permanently. Never to _death_. They’ve been great, as much as they can be. They handled Killian’s funeral and everything, I just… they just don’t get it. And then Henry. I’m just trying to keep things normal for him, but…”

“But?” Archie prompts.

“I can barely keep things normal for _myself_. Even before I was hearing him, it just…” A tear slides down her cheek, and her voice cracks. “It just hurts. And it’s not stopping.”

“Emma,” Archie gently says, “what you went through was an incredibly traumatic experience, one that won’t ever fully leave you. But right now, it seems as though your trauma might be stopping you from beginning the natural grieving process.”

She sighs. “I just don’t want to feel like this anymore. I want to have more good days when I can think about him and not be sad.”

Archie grins sadly at her. “When you read a book, the final punctuation mark isn’t the story itself, only the way it ends. Before that, you have chapters full of adventures and special moments. They are the real book, not that last period. When we think of a book, we think of it as a whole, not just how it ended.

“I think it might help you to talk about Killian. Tell me some of your favorite memories of him. Do you think you can do that?”

Emma is quiet for a minute, listening to the faint sounds of Storybrooke outside of Archie’s office. Every so often, a car will drive past, she’ll hear the murmur of voices below the widow, the ring of a bicycle bell and the rattle of its chain, the sharp annoyance of Granny at one of the dwarves, the quiet chirp of birds and the sound of a distant dog howl. The world keeps on spinning.

_It’s okay._

She starts talking.

***

The day is chilly, fall melting gradually into winter, the grass browning beneath her feet and over his grave.

Talking to him makes it easier. He always had a way of settling her heart, making her feel solid. She laughs because here he is, gone and buried, and he’s still doing it.

_Killian Jones  
_ _Beloved brother, friend, and partner.  
_ _“Listen for my footfall in your heart. I am not gone but merely walk within you.”_

It’s a pretty headstone. Polished black marble with the letters carefully chiseled out to sum up the whole of Killian’s long life into a single set of phrases. It feels like an injustice, that she can’t make everyone who looks at this headstone understand who he was. Understand the kindness that dwelt in his heart, the patience and passion and confidence and _the love._

“Hi,” she says on approach before sitting cross-legged on the fresh sod over his grave. “I brought some more rum,” says Emma as she uncaps the glass bottle. She pours a shot at the base of the headstone before taking a pull herself. “You’re probably running low down there,” she jokes. “One of these days I’ll just have to bring you a flask.”

She continues, “Things are pretty good. Robin and Regina are still trying to sort out the mess with Zelena. The kid’s real cute, for all her messed up lineage. They’re naming her Hope. It’s… it’s a good name, although I think ‘Hope Hood’ sounds kind of ridiculous. I thought my suggestion was solid, but Regina refused to spring for Hermione. Whatever. Their loss. Robin liked it, though.

“Um, Henry’s back in school. I feel terrible that he missed so much because of… everything. I’m afraid I’m a terrible mother. What kind of responsible parent pulls their kid out of school to fight fairytale villains?” She pours two shots out for him, and takes another herself. “I know Storybrooke is weird, but he needs to learn, you know… normal kid stuff. Like the capital of South Carolina and what a conjunction is.

“He misses you,” she says then, a tear slipping from her eye. “He misses you a lot. He doesn’t talk about you very much, but he goes to the Jolly every day after school to make sure it’s still in working order.” She can practically hear the way he’d say _the Jolly is a_ she _, Swan._

He feels _so close_ when she’s here. Like if she closed her eyes and reached out her hand she could touch him.

She dumps a good four shots of rum out over the ground beneath her.

_Listen for my footfall in your heart. I am not gone but merely walk within you._

Emma moves so that she can lean back against the stone and just listens.

In the distance, she can hear a chorus of dog howls.

***

It’s early on a Saturday evening when she gets a phone call. Henry had just left to go hang out with a friend with a promise that he’d be home by 11, and she’s just about finished cleaning up the remaining dishes from their dinner. The caller ID on her phone is completely blank, which is odd. With her hackles up and curiosity piqued, she slides her finger across the screen to answer.

“Sheriff Swan,” she answers.

There’s silence across the line.

Emma’s brow furrows. “Hello?”

A short burst of static disrupts the silence. She thinks she hear the sound of someone breathing.

“Are you in need of assistance?” she asks urgently, as she begins to pace towards the front door.

The static continues at odd intervals, sometimes coming in harsh and loud and others in barely a whisper. Now she knows she hears breathing on the other end, strained and heavy. It’s still not particularly noisy, but it’s unmistakable.

“Listen,” she says and she begins stuffing her feet into her boots, “we’ll trace this call, and we’ll come find you, okay?”

The harsh breathing becomes a pained grunt and then a drawn out groan. Emma freezes with her hand hovering just over the sleeve of her red leather jacket.

A heavy moment passes, her words caught in her throat and fear sitting low in her gut.

“Killian?” she chokes out.

There’s no response on the other end. Another pained grunt that ends in a whimper.

 _This is insane_ , Emma thinks. This is just some prank, some asshole who decided to mess with the Sheriff, and she swears, whenever she catches them, they’re going to regret--

“Let me go.”

Clear as day, his voice rings over the phone. He sounds tired, haggard, and _hurt_.

“Killian?” she says again, because she can’t _help_ but say it again.

And again, “Please let me go.”

She feels emotion rising in her throat. An _I can’t_ lays on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn’t get a chance to say it back.

Another voice now. Crisp, formal, and impatient, “That wasn’t the right thing to say.”

Emma hears the line disconnect, and lets out a heaving, wet breath. Scrubbing a hand across her eyes, she immediately dials the station. David’s just on call tonight, but if she’s timed it right, he’s still there.

And he answers, but she doesn’t give him much of a chance to ask her anything and immediately demands, “I need you to trace a call that just came into my cell.”

“I--okay. Let me just boot up the computer.” She can hear him moving back into the station, shuffling papers aside to get to the computer system that’s not much younger than she is.

“It’s gonna take a minute,” David says. “Why am I tracing this call? What happened?”

Emma feels the fear deep in her gut, and answers, “I’m sure it was just a prank call. Some kids screwing around and felt like messing with the Sheriff.”

“What about caller ID?” he asks.

Emma can’t stifle her snippy retort, “Wow, thanks, Dad. I never thought of that.”

“Hey,” he says gently, “I’m just trying to help.” She immediately feels a stab of shame.

“Sorry, it’s just… they used his voice.”

David can’t quite cover his sharp inhalation. He says nothing, and Emma hears the _tic-tic-tic_ of the ancient keyboard paired with her father’s dismal typing speed.

“When did you say this call came in?” he asks quietly.

“Just a few minutes ago,” she answers. “What did you find?”

“Emma,” David says, and it’s _the tone_. The one he and her mother have begun to use whenever they think they have to handle their daughter with kid gloves.

“What did you find, Dad?” she asks again, more urgently.

He sighs. “Emma, you haven’t received any calls since 3:04 this afternoon.”

Her fear turns icy in her stomach. The ice expands, pushing up and up and up until it feels as though her throat is frozen.

“I--” She swallows hard, trying to find her words. “That’s not possible. My phone rang, the call connected, I…”

“You said that you heard his voice,” David says, all gentle and pitying and Emma is just getting _angry_ now. “Maybe it’s just--”

“Just what, David?” she snaps. “Just your daughter going insane? Just me not being able to handle losing the people that I love? I know you’re thinking it, you might as well just say it.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” he answers. “But sometimes grief does strange things--”

She scoffs, “Oh, save it. You’re not my therapist.”

“No, I’m not, but I’m just trying to help you.”

And she _knows_ that. She does. Emma leans her back against the wall and tilts her head so she stares at the ceiling. “You can scrub a phone call from a record in a heartbeat if you know how,” she says. It has to be the answer. She can’t bear the alternative. (She’s been getting better, going to Archie has been helping, and this can’t be--)

“I’ll look into it more tomorrow,” she continues. “If someone scrubbed a call, they might have left some digital fingerprints that we can trace.”

David pauses over the line. Emma braces herself for another well-meaning speech about being concerned for her mental health. “Okay. We can do that.”

Emma closes her eyes. “Good.”

“I love you,” he says.

“I know,” she replies. “Love you too. Sorry for…”

“Don’t apologize. I’ll always be there when you need me.”

***

She tells Archie about the phone call next session.

“My dad thinks I’m crazy, he’s just too nice to say so,” she explains.

“And what do you think, Emma?”

She blows out a harsh breath and leans back against the couch cushions. “Logic would agree with David.”

Archie smiles gently. “I didn’t ask about what logic says, I’m asking about what you think.”

Emma runs a finger over her tattoo. “It feels… it just _feels_ like him,” she says. “When I was first seeing him, it felt like I was just imagining things, but the call? Hearing him screaming that night? That felt real. It still feels real.”

He nods. “You sound conflicted about these feelings.”

“Because it _is_ insane,” Emma says. “He’s dead and gone and I keep hanging onto him because I can’t--” The words from the call ring in her ears.

Let me go.

Please let me go.

“You can’t what?” Archie prompts.

She looks down at the carpeted floor, idly picks a hangnail, because she can’t--

“I don’t want to forget him,” she answers shakily.

Doesn’t want to forget his rare laugh. The way he’d smile at her, the way he’d wrap his arms around her and make her feel like she could do anything if she wanted to. The way he’d run his fingers over her skin, the way he’d say _Swan_ and _love_ and _I love you._ The furrow he’d get between his brows when he was confused or worried, the crows feet around his eyes that she’d never see get deeper, his hair that would never go gray with age and--

“Emma, that’s not bad or shameful,” he says. “The loss of a loved one, particularly one that you relied on as much as Killian, shouldn’t be easy to deal with.”

“At least I’m succeeding there,” she says.

That draws a bit of a smile from Archie, but it’s tempered a moment later. “Having a hard time isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s important to remember that moving on and letting him go isn’t forgetting him. Wouldn’t Killian want you to be happy?”

She nods slowly.

_It’s okay._

_Let me go._

“It’s hard,” is all she says in response.

“I know. That’s why you’re here, why it’s important to keep your family close. You don’t have to go through this alone, Emma.”

And that makes sense. She knows that.

But it doesn’t explain the other voice.

Something in her stops her from mentioning it.

_That wasn’t the right thing to say._

***

Part of her thinks that she _is_ crazy. But the other part of her is no longer so certain. No longer certain that this is just grief having its way with her brain.

Because now there’s this _what if_ ticking away inside her head like a clock.

 _What if_ he’s not really dead. ( _But she saw his body. She ran him through._ )

( _But Rumplestiltsken was dead too, once._ )

 _What if_ something happened, and he’s trapped somewhere--

It _is_ crazy. She knows that. But Storybrooke is basically powered by crazy, and if she can stand here in a town created by a magical curse, with people who are from a different world, who had fake memories shoved in their heads, who lived the same lives without aging for 28 years, and--

“You need to stop,” she mutters quietly to herself as she reaches over to the passenger side of the bug and pulls the bottle of rum out of the paper bag.

Per Archie’s recommendations, she still comes to the cemetery to talk to him but has been doing it less than she had in the past. This is the first time in a week that she’s come here, but it feels… different now.

The phone call is still stuck in her head, the insistent tick of doubt, and the sound of that second voice. _That wasn’t the right thing to say._

The sound of him. Desperate and pleading.

“You really need to stop,” she says again as she opens the door and ventures out across the cemetery.

It’s an overcast day, but warmer than Emma would’ve expected. The place is deserted, Emma the only soul interested in visiting the dead today. He is buried at the top of a gentle rise, enough height that one can see the ocean horizon on clear days. She’d thought that was fitting.

Emma sees the black headstone, the words across it familiar now, and says on approach, “Hi, Killian.”

She expects to sit near his headstone, share the rum, tell him about what he’s missed.

She does not expect it when he flickers to existence before her very eyes.

The bottle of rum slips from her fingers, taking a step forward out of pure instinct before she freezes.

He’s looks terrible, his face swollen and bloody, his clothes torn and filthy, but it’s him. As surely as her feet are on the ground, he stands across from her just in front of his headstone.

All the breath has left her body, leaving her gaping and frozen in front of him.

When he sees her, she can feel the tears gathering in her eyes because it’s him. It’s _him_. He’s--

“Emma?”

The tears fall then, because it feels so good to hear him say her name, his voice gentle and disbelieving and everything that she’s been missing for the past few months.

“Killian?” she says, tentatively taking a step forward.

His expression is shocked, and under that there’s an undeniable layer of _fear_. “Where are you?” he asks, and his voice sounds muffled, as though there’s a thin wall between them.

It takes her a few moments to respond, still shell-shocked that he’s standing in front of her, _speaking_ to her. “I--I’m in Storybrooke. Wh--where… Where are you?”

He looks like he’s about to reply when Emma hears the sound of a dog growling. Killian looks behind him, and pure fear takes over his expression before he looks back at her. “Emma, listen to me, you need to stay in Storybrooke.” The growling gets louder. Emma’s heart is pounding in her chest. “No matter what you see or what you hear, you need to _stay there_. He can’t get to you there.”

“Killian, I’m--”

He looks back again, fear bleeding into resignation. He turns back. “I love you so much, Emma. But please just let me go.”

She shakes. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You have to,” he urges. “I won’t let him find you or our family. I know this doesn’t all make sense, but you have to trust--”

The growl turns into vicious barking, and Emma doesn’t see the thing that grabs him, but she hears his scream of pain. He collapses to his knees, but doesn’t remain for long, and is dragged backwards. Emma can’t stop herself from running after him, but she can’t reach him before the image of him disappears through his headstone. The sound of his pain echoes for a second longer before it too disappears.

Emma falls to her hands and knees, crushing grass between her fingers.

Killian Jones isn’t dead.

And he’s in danger.

***

She should’ve known they wouldn’t believe her.

Emma tells her parents what she saw at the graveyard, can recall it with perfect accuracy what she saw and felt, but they just--

They give her _the look_ and speak to her in _the tone_. “You’re still grieving,” says Snow. “It’s good that you’re telling us about these things because we want to be there for you and help you.”

“You don’t believe me,” she says flatly.

“It’s not that we don’t believe you,” David assures. “But Emma, he’s dead. We buried him almost three months ago. There’s no magic that can cheat death.”

“And until last year, there was no magic that could let you go through time!” she snaps. She shakes her head. “I’ll handle this on my own.” She turns to walk away.

“Emma--” they both say, but she won’t have any of this.

She whirls on them like a hurricane. “Don’t test me,” she says. “You might think I’m crazy, but I’m _not_. I know what I’ve seen, and I need to know the truth about what’s happening to him.

“And I will do it by myself if I have to.”

***

Regina finds her in the library.

Emma imagines that her mother probably filled Regina in on what was going on but figures it was probably Belle who sold out her location.

(It was also Belle, however, who gave her every book she needed without complaint or talk of _this isn’t real_. It has been easy to forget that there were other people who cared about Killian, too.)

The click of heels in unmistakable, but Emma doesn’t look up from her research.

In the book she’s reading, there’s an illustration of a three-headed dog, large and muscular with terrifying fangs. A caption beneath it is printed in small letters. _Cerberus_ , it reads. _The Hound of Hades._ Something had grabbed Killian from behind. Something that growled and barked and something that Killian was _terrified of_.

Regina doesn’t say anything for a minute, but Emma can hear her rummaging around the paraphernalia at the edge of the table.

“Some quality sources you’ve got here,” Regina quips, and Emma glances up to see her holding the VHS of Disney’s Hercules.

Emma just shrugs. “A lot of the after death mythology includes mentions of Hades and the Underworld. Since everything here seems to skew towards the Disney version, I can’t rule anything out.”

“Mind if I sit?” Regina asks, indicating an empty chair at the table.

Emma doesn’t say anything, and Regina takes that as an invitation and sits.

“If you’re going to tell me I’m wasting my time or ‘you shouldn’t be alone right now, Emma,’ then save it.”

Regina smiles a bit. “I was going to say neither of those things. I just want to know what you’ve told Henry.”

“Nothing,” Emma answers. “I can’t tell him this.”

Regina raises a brow. “Our son is the truest believer, and you don’t think he’d believe you?”

“It’s not that I just…” Emma makes a frustrated sound. “I know I sound nuts.”

“No kidding,” Regina says.

“Not helpful,” Emma shoots back. “I just don’t want him to have to make a choice between me and everyone else.”

“Fair enough,” replies Regina. She looks down at all of Emma’s materials spread across the table. “What makes you think he’s real?”

“You know better than anyone else what it’s like to lose people you love,” Emma says. “You told me you saw Daniel after he died. But I think deep down, you knew it just wasn’t him.”

Regina blows out a breath and looks contemplative for a moment. “I suppose. But I also let my grief spiral into rage and hatred for Snow who wasn’t even responsible… and I don’t want to see anything like that happen to you.”

Emma grumbles. “I’m not about to go all Evil Emma again. That’s not me.”

Chuckling a bit darkly, Regina answers, “I know. I’m glad. But I am worried you’re losing yourself in this one way or another.”

“Believe me, Regina,” Emma says, “no one is more aware of how this looks than me. But I need to know that I’m not missing something. I need to know that wherever he is, he’s going to be okay.”

Regina sighs and stands. “I think that’s just one of those things we have to take on faith.” She shakes her head slowly, opens her mouth to say something else before apparently deciding against it. “I’ll see you around.”

Emma watches Regina leave, her coat swishing regally behind her, and looks back down at the book in front of her.

She runs her fingers over the illustration.

_Cerberus guards the entrance to the Underworld, and some say those in the land of the living can hear its howls._

***

“She’s going to the cemetery again today,” Snow notes, watching her daughter drive up the road from the main Granny’s window.

“That’s not odd,” says David. “And it’s good for her to go.”

“Is it?” Snow asks. “He’s been gone for three months.”

“That’s not all that long, you know,” Regina says. “Are you expecting her to, what, just forget she’s still mourning and move on so you don’t have to feel uncomfortable anymore?”

“No,” Snow replies, a bit hotly, “I’m just worried about her. She’s having hallucinations! I’m pretty sure that’s not a normal part of the grieving process.”

They all fall a bit silent, the elephant in the room of Emma’s difficulties sitting prominently between them.

“Maybe we’ve been giving her too much space,” David suggests. “Even if it seems like she doesn’t want us around, it must be hard for her to be going about this by herself.”

“We could meet her at the cemetery,” Regina suggests. “She’s been going by herself for all these months, maybe it would help to have some company.”

The Charmings agree to Regina’s proposal, and head out of Granny’s to their respective cars. The drive is short, and soon they spot Emma’s yellow bug and park next to her. They can’t see to the hilltop where Hook is buried, but they know Emma will be up there.

On their approach, they see her standing with her back to them, her arms wrapped around herself in front of her.

“I need you to give me more,” they hear her say. “I can’t find you unless I know how to get there.”

“Emma,” David calls, and Emma visibly startles before turning to face them.

Her posture immediately goes defensive. “What are you guys doing here?”

Snow speaks before Regina can stop her. “We were worried about you and didn’t want you to be alone,” she says with a hopeful smile on her face, even though in Regina’s estimation it was the worst thing she could’ve said.

Emma’s fist clenches and she backs up a step. “I don’t need you _worrying_ about me--”

An explosion of something unseen goes off behind Emma, knocking her forward and unto her stomach and sending Snow, Regina, and David stumbling. The shockwave is clear and rippling, and dissipates at the edge of the hill.

Everyone is frozen in place except for Emma.

Because Hook is standing right in front of them.

He looks like he’s seen an arduous battle or vicious torture, with blood and filth over his whole body and his face beaten almost past recognition, but it’s him. Without a doubt, it’s him.

Emma is scrambling to her feet and then saying, “Killian, _please_. Tell me how to get to you.”

Regina is the one who manages to move first, coming to stand next to Emma. “How is this _possible_?” she whispers.

It looks like Hook is struggling to speak, like each word will cost him greatly. “Hades…” he manages. He screams then, an unseen pain rippling through him as he collapses.

Emma nearly collapses right along with him, but Regina grabs her arm and holds her steady.

Hook looks up then, his eyes boring into Emma’s. “He’s coming.”

Then comes a dark laugh, a chilling sound that sends a chill down Regina’s spine.

“Oh,” the disembodied voice says, “this shall be fun.”

 


End file.
